A Friend Given by Nature
by The Smart Cookie
Summary: Brothers provide, right? Maybe, but no one ever told a much, MUCH younger Mycroft that it would be such a pain! Will be a short multi-chapter.
1. Chapter 1

A Friend Given by Nature

_**Disclaimer:**_ I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the characters it contains.

_Our siblings. They resemble us just enough to make all their differences confusing, and no matter what we choose to make of this, we are cast in relation to them our whole lives long.— Susan Scarf Merrell _

* * *

Delicately gripping the hinge of his round, rimless spectacles, the elder Holmes' posture slumped ever so slightly as he let out a contemplative, weary sigh.

"You know there is simply no way that I could possibly do that for you."

"But you'll try, won't you, Mycroft? Oh, please say you'll try!"

"You're _whining_, Sherlock," Mycroft reprimanded the bouncing, puppy-dog eyed seven-year-old transfixed at the end of his bed with a firm, barely-patient growl. Well, almost seven.

"I'm sorry!" The younger sibling fairly cried in a desperate attempt to appease his older brother, though Mycroft only winced at the sound of Sherlock's high-pitched, penetrating screech. Indeed, Sherlock's face reddened at the sound of his own voice. Dropping his head and sending silent thanks to Heaven that their father hadn't been home to hear that, the younger Holmes clenched his small, pale, bony fists in his lap and tried again.

"I'm sorry, Mycroft, truly I am. But will you please at least try to get for me?"

This time, Mycroft's hands found their way underneath the lenses of his glasses where they rigorously massaged his eyes and the bridge of his nose. Any normal person would have found such an obvious display of stress highly unusual and perhaps even slightly alarming coming from a fourteen-year-old, but Sherlock, who had drawn both legs up onto the bed and gripped his feet as he sat Indian-style, now watched his brother keenly.

He was _always_ watching something keenly, Mycroft thought as he sensed his brother's searching glare land on him. At times, he wasn't even so sure his little brother was human. But then he ruefully remembered that such misgivings about the odd little thing seated next to him were, albeit indirectly, quite valid reflections on himself! There had never been any doubt in Mycroft's mind as to he and his brother's common parentage; aside from the obvious physical resemblance, there were several other very good reasons that their mother had always happily referred to her sons as "two green peas in a pod." The Holmes boys were intellectuals. Each one had been from the very start, which was quite a curious phenomenon considering the seven-year gap between the two children. Father had always joked that Mycroft could count to ten before he knew how to walk. Indeed, by the time he could barely reach the table, Mycroft had learned to find sheer merriment in counting the strawberries in a bowl, or how many peas were on his plate.

Consequently, in the first few months following the birth of Sherlock, Mycroft was, to say the least, unimpressed by the tiny, clumsy, bloated, drooling, crying, and often smelly little creature that he was expected to unquestioningly and unconditionally love. Not that he resented his baby brother, but Sherlock was just that—a baby. An incompetent, unengaging baby that would be all but incapable of learning anything of any value from him for some time to come. In Mycroft's mind, that was all he had to offer his little brother, really; while he only expected that his parents would be predisposed to endlessly fawning and cooing and doting over the little thing, it never occurred to Mycroft that Sherlock _needed_ love, let alone from him! An infant, he reasoned, was, after all, only partially aware of the whole of its surroundings. And surely the gurgling, moon-faced creature cradled in his mother's arms could not understand their language! Thus, Sherlock was, at first, nothing more to Mycroft than a minor household nuisance that occasionally shrieked in the middle of the night and routinely made a disgusting mess of himself at the table when Mother spoon-fed him a bit of pureed carrots or spinach.

And then came a day about nine or ten months after his brother's birth, when Sherlock had not quite begun to walk but had managed to master the art of crawling just as effectively as he'd mastered the art of deduction much, _much_ later in his life. It was a bleak, sunless afternoon, as Mycroft recalled. Mother had taken ill with a head-cold and napped in her room while Father was busy scribbling away with paperwork at his desk in the living-room, where Sherlock's crib often ended up during the day. While Mother would have had a fit at the thought of leaving her child to crawl around as he pleased on the floor, Father saw no harm in letting Sherlock on his own to explore for a little bit. He could already see that the child was naturally curious; it seemed that Sherlock just wanted to reach out and grab everything he saw, be it a rattle, his toes, Father's magnifying glass, or ants.

As such, Mycroft was not very surprised, though slightly annoyed, when his bedroom door, which had been just slightly ajar, swung open as though pushed by a ghost. Dismissing this as an impossibility, however, he immediately came to the conclusion that the intruder was no more than the house's smallest occupant, and this conclusion was soon solidified by the soft pitter-patter of small hands and knees creeping along his floor. As all of this went through his mind, Mycroft did not so much as even look up from his maths textbook, which he was currently reading through on the bed.

However, Mycroft found himself unable to focus on his book as he listened to the sound of the baby crawling around the perimeter of his room and squeaking with inquisitive delight. It made its way under his small table and, after finding that even a well-placed tug on one of its legs would not cause the thing to exhibit some fantastic magical effect, Sherlock decided to set his tiny attention span on firmly yanking at the hem of the quilt on his brother's bed. Only then did Mycroft finally spare a single, condescending glance at the infant on the ground.

And was quite shaken by what he saw.

The child, after a moment or two more of fidgeting with the blanket, chose to turn his clumsy, round head with its big snowdrop-eyes up to meet his brother's. It was the first time Sherlock had ever really looked at his brother...and the first time Mycroft had ever really _seen_ his. Mycroft now perceived that his brother had brown hair; it had, before now (well, the last time he saw him, anyway), been a rather light tint of strawberry-blonde. His brother's nose was rather narrow and a bit protruding for a person of such a young age, and yet it still had that "squashed-flat" look to it that marked all babies' delicate features. His brother's eyes were of the purest, softest, most frost-laden grey, like a frozen pond brushed by snow on a cold day such as this one. They locked with his own and as Mycroft stared into them, he became aware for the first time that there was, indeed, a _soul_ inside the disproportionate, odd-looking thing at his bedside.

The child, apparently having found the sight of Mycroft to be much more interesting than the inanimate quilt, relinquished its grip on the blanket and stretched his arms upwards toward his brother, clenching his tiny fingers into fists. It was obvious now what Sherlock wanted: not a toy, not a blanket or something to chew on, but _him_. And so, with only very slight unease (he _refused_ to be intimidated by a baby), he slipped his hands under his brother's arms and gripped him gently but firmly by the torso, lifting him up and carefully placing him near—but not too close to—the end of his bed. He kept his hands on the child a few moments longer and then, judging that Sherlock could sit up on his own, released him. Mycroft had never held his brother before—never even touched him. His skin was soft.

Irrationally, or so he told himself, Mycroft found himself a bit flattered at presently being the subject of his brother's complete, scrutinizing, and undivided attention. He knew that the child could tell that this new "thing" in his world was unlike his toys or his blanket; somehow, it was "bigger"—in more ways than one! His baby brother flashed Mycroft a gleeful, toothless smile.

And promptly turned his attention to pulling at his brother's shoestrings before Mycroft had time to smile back.

Fortunately, Mycroft caught himself before he could be miffed or disappointed, but then abruptly ceased all other thought as he observed his little brother. Sherlock was untying his shoelaces.

It took him the better half of a minute to figure out where and how to pull on the bow, but once he did, Sherlock easily disentangled the knot and wasted no time on loosening the other shoe, which was accomplished in seconds.

Mycroft was astounded. He sat motionless for a few seconds, staring at his brother with his mouth half open while the baby grinned at him once again, almost as though to ask "is there more?" So Mycroft obliged this unspoken (and perhaps imagined) request, reaching over his knees to tie the lace into a bow once more. This time (despite the minor difficulty of small fingers trying to pry his hands away from the shoe), he fastened the string into a double-knot. And by and by, the child's fingers dove into the mess of string without a moment to lose. Although this one did baffle the child for a time, once he'd figured out that he needed to pull at the knot from the center and not the ends of the string, he loosened it easily.

Impressed, but not willing to let his brother's limits go untested, Mycroft grabbed the laces from both of his shoes and worked them into another double-knot. Sherlock, however, made easier work of this one than the last, as the large knot was less difficult for him to grasp.

For the first time in his life, Mycroft smiled at his younger brother. No longer in his eyes was the being in front of him just an incontinent thing that ate and cried and slept. That day, Sherlock became a person—a tiny person, but with massive potential.

"Alright, so you're a smart boy," Mycroft sighed resignedly to his little brother, who seemed quite fascinated by the sound of Mycroft's unfamiliar voice.

Mycroft was not smiling when he looked up and realized that Father had been watching them from the doorway the whole time.

"Mycroft? Mycroft!"

It was uncanny, Mycroft thought, that he should snap so suddenly out of his reverie only to find Sherlock in the exact same spot where he had been on that day almost seven years ago. Sherlock was quite taken aback as his brother gave a brief, mirthless chuckle.

"You're a real thorn in my side, you know that?"

"Only as I need to be," the younger casually supplied.

"'Only as you need to be!' You mean only when you _want_ something!"

"I never ask you for anything!"

"Oh, heavens no! Only to play cards, and play tag, and to teach you every last thing I learn in school..."

"Shut up!"

"And to take you into town, and to climb trees with you..."

"Shut _up_!"

At this, the younger Holmes launched forward and landed an incensed, but not very formidable punch on his brother's arm. The room fell into silence as Mycroft gave no response but to glare daggers at his misbehaving sibling. Mycroft was already quite adept at using silence as a weapon, and Sherlock once again lowered his head in shame at his unnecessary outburst.

"Sherlock. You. Are acting. Like. A child."

Sherlock said nothing, and Mycroft was inwardly amused at how affected his six-year-old brother could be at being told he was acting his age.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"No, you're not. All you want is your damned birthday present," Mycroft observed quietly, even as Sherlock's eyes nearly bulged out of his head at his brother's use of profanity.

"And what kind of seven-year-old wants a book on ancient Chinese mythology, anyway?" Mycroft shouted to no one in particular, resting a hand on his forehead.

"But you haven't seen it, Mycroft! It's huge, almost as tall as I am—"

"I severely doubt that," Mycroft interjected sardonically, but Sherlock went on as though he hadn't heard him.

"And it's got pictures on nearly every page!"

"As well it should, for ten guineas!"

"Exactly! With a price-tag like that, don't you see how nice it has to be?"

"Do not _ever_ repeat that thought in my presence, and especially not in front of Father. Rest assured, you will not get very far in life living by that foolish principle."

"I know, I know," Sherlock mumbled unenthusiastically, awkwardly burying a hand in his dark, very-overdue-for-a-trim hair.

"So you won't do it, then?" The deflated child asked hopelessly, hopping off the bed and facing his brother directly.

"Would that I could," Mycroft answered bitterly, viewing the problem from a purely practical standpoint. As his conscience seeped into the matter, however, he could not help but study Sherlock even as he stood there pitifully, begging before him. It was a book, after all, that he wanted. Mycroft was glad, at least, for this. While he could certainly act like a child when he wanted to, Sherlock was not so stupid and empty-headed as to go asking him for some pointless toy that would surely be outgrown if it was not broken first.

Mycroft thought back to the infant fiddling with his shoestrings seven years ago. If the good Lord had deemed it fit to curse him with a younger sibling, He'd at least had the mercy to give him some brains. And although he'd never share the feeling with his brother, of course, Mycroft was, in his own private, peculiar way, grateful for this.

"Very well. I will see what I can do," Mycroft grumbled. The explosion of shock on Sherlock's face bloomed into disbelieving joy.

"You will? Do you really mean it?"

"I said I'll see what I can do. I promise no miracles, so do not expect any."

"Thank you, Mycroft!"

Sherlock practically lunged forward and caught his arm—the same one he'd punched not ten minutes ago—while the elder Holmes promptly met his brother's overbearing display of affection with a distasteful swat upside the head.

"Get off me, you little pest."

In his giddiness, Sherlock happily obliged without a single complaint. Sherlock was doing, Mycroft feared, just exactly what he'd hoped he _wouldn't_ do. He'd taken Mycroft's agreement to see about getting the book as an automatic confirmation that Mycroft _would_ get the book. _I've warned him_, the elder Holmes thought as he tepidly looked into the face of his smiling little brother.

"As I said, I promise you nothing. Now, go to bed."

* * *

Any thoughts? Please leave a review.


	2. Chapter 2

"So, what do you think, Father?"

"I think it is very noble of you to undertake a sacrifice for your brother," Emery Holmes replied simply, sealing one final envelope and turning to meet the questioning gaze of his pensive son. He had noted for quite some times that Mycroft always (perhaps unconsciously) made it a point to ask him for advice only while he was sitting down. In his son's mind, he reasoned, it made him seem more on his level—maybe not so far beyond him, after all, and more apt to be understanding.

"Noble. More like stupid," Mycroft grumbled, moving his gaze to the floor.

"Alright, my son," his father began, removing his reading-spectacles (dreadful, heavy things, he always maintained) and resting one elbow on his desk. "What would you have me do?"

"Nothing! I merely meant to ask you to, er... Well, will you keep an ear open for any... uh, potential... opportunities to... Well, for me to perhaps... scrape up a few coins?"

By the time he was done stammering, Mycroft's normally pale face had morphed into a great, red beet. Father's mildly amused looked did not make things any easier for him to bear, either. But the only way to tell a diamond from paste, he always said, was to scratch it. And so Father affixed to his face an expression of gravity the likes of which which only a Holmes could conjure up on a whim.

"I'll not carry your load for you, son."

"I know!" Mycroft blurted dejectedly. He couldn't stand it when his father looked at him that way—like he'd murdered someone. That cool, calm, careful veneer that constantly draped over his emotions had now been dashed into pieces as a tower of wooden blocks, for Father was never, _ever_ deceived by it. His sons had learned it from him, after all.

"I know," Mycroft repeated, more sedately this time. "I didn't want you to. All I ask is that in the unlikely event anything should come up, just... let me know?"

The mask of severity gilded on Father's thin, angular visage remained as stout and stolid as ever, and in fact he even narrowed his eyes a little bit, appearing to glimpse into the depths of his son's very soul (or so Mycroft thought.)

"And that is all?"

"That is all," Mycroft replied confidently, meeting his father's unrelenting glare at last.

_Glare?_

Mycroft blinked; no longer did he feel (literally _feel_, he could have sworn) the faint burning sensation on his skin of an acute, scrutinizing, and inevitably all-knowing examination.

"Well, in that case, my son," Father chirped good-naturedly, his hand subtly slipping into the pocket of his coat draped over the back of the chair, "I think I can oblige you."

"Thank you," Mycroft responded immediately, pivoting on his heel to leave with considerably more haste than was polite—and than was natural for him to move with...ever.

"Don't walk away from me while I'm speaking to you."

Mycroft felt the pricking sensation of heat on his face again at the cooly neutral and yet imperious command. Like all normal human beings, he hated to be reprimanded. _Hated_ it—but especially when it was because of something so trifling and inconsequential such as now. He was a boy of impeccable manners (on the rare occasion he engaged someone other than his father and his brother, that is) and thus was frozen in his tracks to be called out on something so...

"I'm sorry, Father."

Stupid.

"Then turn around and face me this instant."

Mycroft complied only to find his father cupping three sovereigns in the palm of his hand when he turned—just exactly as he had feared. The small, gold-minted coins caught the light and glimmered with a yellow sparkle as he fidgeted with them.

"All the way, boy! What ever is wrong with you tonight? I was only going to give you something to get started with, not cane you!" Father chided him, though his voice betrayed more confusion than harshness.

"I know. I have enough to come up with already; I do not want to be in debt, as well," Mycroft pointed out sensibly, his calmness covering an underlying contingency of wounded pride. The eldest Holmes bristled.

"Consider it a gift this time."

"I am grateful for the offer, but I do not accept charity," declared Mycroft with complete respect and dignity. With an air of finality, Father clamped his fingers into a fist over the coins, gracing his son with a fleeting but obviously pleased smile.

"As you wish...my proud and self-reliant son."

_Boy_, was that a wonderful thing to hear after all this torture! Mycroft well knew (even if only subconsciously at times) that Father did foster a deep, fundamental love for both his brother and himself, despite that he wasn't the most affectionate of parents. But it sure was nice to be held up on a little pedestal at least once in a while.

And so Mycroft wandered off to his bedroom feeling proud but hollow. After all, the conversation had effectively accomplished nothing, and his pocket was none the richer!

* * *

Four shillings. Three sixpence pieces. An odd half crown. Two pound notes.

Mycroft sighed disparagingly. Most of it had been his _own_ birthday money.

"Being robbed blind by my own brother," he muttered to himself, scraping the coins and notes into a (dismally small) pile and then back into his tin lock-box. He was interrupted, however, by a low and hesitant knock at his door.

Before he could say "What do you want, Sherlock?" his little brother had already scooted into his room and silently shut the door behind him.

"What on earth are you doing? It's late."

"I know," Sherlock replied calmly. Mycroft eyed him with distaste; he looked positively wretched. Sherlock was skinny enough as it was, but the baggy, oversized nightshirt made him look even thinner. His black hair was a greasy, untamed mess that stood on end in several places and fell over his eyes, concealing one of them completely, and dark, purple-ish circle hung under the one that was visible.

"You look like a ghoul," Mycroft remarked, though Sherlock opted to ignore the observation. A slight jangling sound filled the room as Sherlock stepped forward, gripping a small, shabby black pouch which he offered to Mycroft.

"Here."

"Oh, not again, Sherlock!" Mycroft moaned, turning his head toward the ceiling. "How many times have I told you that I never promised you anything? Now take your money and get out!"

"But this will help," the younger Holmes shot quickly, placing the little purse on his dresser when he saw that Mycroft obviously wasn't going to take it.

"It'll help," he repeated earnestly.

"It'll help? And what have you, a few pence, at most?"

"No! Aunt Sarah gave me five pounds for my birthday last year. Five whole pounds, Mycroft!" Sherlock went on enticingly, dreamily.

"Cheap old bag could afford to have given you triple that," Mycroft mumbled, pausing to rub his tired eyes. "And you want to go and waste all that now? If you just took proper care of your library books in the first place, you wouldn't even need to ask me for this!"

"I only ruined one, though! That time when I left it out in the rain, remember?"

"And the one you spilled Father's ink all over."

Sherlock gave a brief but violent shiver.

"Don't ever remind me of that."

"It doesn't matter, anyway," Mycroft said coldly, dismissively, placing the lock-box back in his drawer.

"You should really find a better hiding place for that, you know. If someone were to break in, it would practically be the first thing to go," the younger Holmes pointed out with a surprising amount of concern.

"I suppose I'll just have to keep a vigilant eye on it, then," he countered, regarding his brother suspiciously.

"I'm just saying," Sherlock shrugged, and then suddenly decided to climb up onto Mycroft's bed. Again.

"And just _what_ do you think you're doing?"

"I can't go back to sleep," replied his brother innocently, muffling a yawn.

"Nightmares again?" Inquired Mycroft knowingly. Although night _terrors_ were what the doctor called them. While even Mycroft suffered the occasional bad dream, at least they were not violent, prolonged, and intense as his brother's apparently were. On more than one occasion, he or even Father had been woken by his thrashing and panicked cries in the middle of the night and had tried to shake him awake, but even then it usually took several minutes just to break his trance. And while they had been assured by their physician that Sherlock would eventually grow out of them, it wasn't as though that provided any comfort in the interim.

"Yes," came his groggy affirmation.

"I can appreciate that they are wholly unpleasant and that yours are far and away worse than mine, but you simply must convince yourself that monsters in your closet are _not_ real.," Mycroft pointed out logically.

"He's not a monster!" Sherlock cried, snapping to attention. "And he's not in my closet...not always, anyway. He can be anywhere, I've seen him all over. He's got to be at least seven feet tall, I swear it, with pointed teeth and black eyes! Mycroft...it's almost as though his body's got no muscle, just skin covering bone, with thin purple veins all in between" he paused quivering. "And his fingernails are sharp, too. And then he grabs you with 'em when he gets you! And you can't run from him because his legs are so long, he's too fast. And then...And then—"

"Stop it, Sherlock, stop it _now_. I mean it, not another word!" He cut him off firmly when Sherlock's rambling started to wobble and shake.

"Look, Sherlock, I don't know what this anonymous phantom of yours is, but—"

"Whittaker. His name's Whittaker."

"_Whittaker?_ Oh, for the love of heaven!"

"Don't laugh at me! You don't understand!"

"I'm not laughing at you," Mycroft replied, half-exasperated, half-sympathetic as he took a seat next to his brother, who was very nearly bursting with frightened, angry tears by now.

"But do you not see what you've done? Here you've taken this monster, this..._imaginary_ man, and you've given him a face, a voice, an appearance right down to the capillaries beneath his skin, even a name. You wish him to leave you alone, as it were, yet that tireless imagination of yours has gripped onto this fantasy and run away with it. You're making him real, Sherlock."

Sherlock blinked, this new, strange thought grinding through the gears of his brain and temporarily banishing the lingering visions of his ghostly stalker.

"Does that make sense?" asked Mycroft gently, as though he were addressing...well, a child. He received no reply save a weary nod from his brother, anyway, whose eyes were already beginning to flutter and close.

"Good. Now, go back to bed and do not give another moment's thought to this silly Whit—_dream_. Forgo sleep for the whole night, if you have to, but shut him out completely. Do not even think his name. Alright?"

It was odd advice, at best, he knew, and probably not the most healthy thing for a six-or-seven-year-old boy to be hearing, but were not a few hours (or nights, if need be) of sleep worth his brother's overall peace of mind? Mycroft didn't think so; there would always be time to sleep, but that hardly mattered if the poor thing couldn't keep his eyes closed for five minutes without coming under an imaginary siege of creepy-crawlies.

"Hurry up, then! We _both_ are going to be dragged out of bed in a few hours to get ready for church tomorrow, anyway."

"But it's already Sun—"

"Just _go_!"

* * *

I hope I've done a decent enough job with the brotherly bickering.

And I never pictured the Holmes boys' father as a cold, uncaring pseudo-parent. Just a bit of a quiet nonconformist who wants to shape his sons into responsible and intelligent adults, even if some lessons must be learned the hard way.

Reviews are appreciated. Thanks.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Man, I'm not a big fan of shoveling, but thank God for snow days. Sorry for the enormous lag. That's what happens when your brain is in pieces with hundreds of other fandoms.

* * *

Two of the smaller faces in the church (one distinctly rounder than the other next to it and to which it bore an uncanny resemblance) stared blankly as the priest humbly delivered his sermon. Although Father Kilpatrick was infinitely more sincere than any other clergyman Mycroft had had the (dis)pleasure of meeting, the Good Lord had evidently not seen it fit to bestow an ounce of oratory talent upon the kind young man. Not that Mycroft minded much. "The more you say, the less is said," Father always told his boys. And it made for shorter homilies.

Mycroft's eyes rolled in the direction of his brother as Sherlock squirmed a little next to him. Sherlock, he thought with a twitch of a smile, would take off running in the direction of home as soon as the final hymn was over, not for any particular reason other than releasing the swollen mass of energy built up and rising inside him. Putting Sherlock in a crowded room and expecting him to sit still for an hour was, after all, about as effective as trying to contain a fizzing stick of dynamite inside of a bottle.

Mycroft snapped out of his thoughts as a chorus of "amen"s resounded through the small building. Father shot a look down at his son as Mycroft gave his own reply after a noticeable lag. Sherlock, whose mind was presently a million miles away from Church, only swung his legs and bit down on his lip.

* * *

"Go now in peace."

"Thanks be to God," Mycroft replied in perfect time and with all his heart. Good. Now he was going to go home, finish his exercises in mathematics and literature, and see if Father would just let him take apart that old piano in the sitting room and be done with it—

"Oh, goodness me! Just one more thing, if you all please!" The awkward, skinny priest remembered with a high-pitched yelp as the people began to mumble among themselves.

"Thank you, thank you," he floundered, blushing an incredible shade of scarlet as the room fell silent once more.

"Now, as you all know, most of us here are acquainted with Frank Ferr—er, _Mister_ Ferrin, who has been a devoted member of our parish for many years...and many more to come, we hope," he sputtered on excessively. Mycroft plainly rolled his eyes.

"And as we are _all_ aware, it has now been three months since the passing on of Missus Ferrin, God rest her soul. As such, Mister Ferrin, now the sole resident of his farm, is no longer able to tend to it by himself."

Oh, he knew where _this_ was going. And he knew the place well; everyone did. Most of them passed the small farmstead every week on their way to the church. Of course, the Holmes boys (and Father) had figured out that the old man's wife had taken seriously ill weeks before it became common knowledge. Most people who have been accustomed to putting in a long, hard, solid day's work just to make end's meet all throughout their lives are not quick to let something so trifling as a sniffle or cough come between them and their daily routine, however laborious that routine may be. And weekly mass was part of the Ferrins' routine. Invariably. So it was not altogether uncommon to occasionally hear a lady's delicate sneeze or a man's cracking cough coming from the pew that the Ferrins never failed to occupy every Sunday.

But then, one day not too long ago, Mycroft noticed that there was only one set of footprints—a man's—cutting across the farmhouse lawn and leading down the road.

"Boys," Father had said not seconds after Mycroft had made this observation, "do say a prayer for the well-being of Missus Ferrin when we get inside."

And pray they did, but whether their prayers served to ease the lady's suffering or mercifully hasten her departure from this world to the next Mycroft never knew, as they certainly did not effect some sort of miraculous recovery.

Mister Ferrin had not been seen in Church since the funeral.

"That is why I am asking for at least one of us to drop by his estate a couple of times a week and assist him with any odd chores that are perhaps too demanding for him to undertake at this time. Just a few days a week, if you could spare it. For as the Lord Jesus said to the righteous, 'Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.' Go now in peace."

Before the organist could strike the first note of the closing hymn, Mycroft's eyes widened ever so briefly in realization. It was also true of the laboring-class that many of them were possessed of a certain dignity from their toils. They worked for every last thing they had, after all. Emery and his two sons knew the feeling well; the Holmes family didn't come from money. A few lucky relatives had happened _upon_ it, but Sherlock and Mycroft were the first generation of Holmes children not to grow up in an environment that was strikingly similar to that of the Ferrins'.

Mycroft would be lying if he said that he hadn't a trace of this characteristic pride in him, himself. It stirred within him just last night when Father had tried to give him money. The offer felt like nothing less than a slap in the face. Father was never the kind to be condescending, especially to his own sons, but _damn_ if Mycroft didn't feel just a little bit as though he were being patronized.

So if _his_ mind was set so firmly against accepting charity, then naturally...

Mycroft shoved past his brother (and nearly crushed him to death in the process) out of the bench as soon as the song ended and pushed through the crowd muttering insincere "excuse me"s until he finally reached the priest. He doubted anyone would jump at the opportunity to do unpaid farm work, anyway, but it didn't hurt to be careful.

He waited patiently while some idiot wrung the priest's hand and chewed his ear off for a good five minutes. He dearly hoped this was going to work. It was something of a long shot, after all...

When the moron finally left, Mycroft mustered up his most convincing smile. The priest smiled back.

"Hello, son. What can I do for you?"

"I just wanted to let you know, Father, that I would be more than happy to assist Mister Ferrin whenever he needs it."

Mycroft's sculpted grin faltered for a moment. He felt his face began to grow warm—even _he_ couldn't believe how false he sounded. Father Kilpatrick, however, was nothing short of impressed, and he clamped Mycroft on the shoulder excitedly.

"Oh, would you really? Why, thank you from the very bottom of my heart, lad! How encouraging to see such spirited generosity from among the youth..."

Mycroft's blush deepened as the clergyman went on about how saintly he was. Now he _truly_ was embarrassed.

"It is really no trouble at all, Father. If you will please excuse me, my father and brother are waiting for me."

"Of course, of course. Thank you again...I say, child! I never got your name!"

"Hm? Oh. Holmes. Mycroft Holmes," he supplied casually. As expected, the clergyman looked slightly miffed.

"Alright, then... Mister Holmes."

Mycroft nodded and turned away with a smirk. He hated having such an odd name; people would always have to ask for it twice when introduced to him, for fear of having heard it incorrectly. He was surprised Kilpatrick had been able to pull himself out of that one so smoothly...

His smirk dropped like a dead fly when he caught sight of the smoldering glare Father was sending him presently.

* * *

The walk home was a silent one at first. Contrary to his expectations, Sherlock didn't bolt as soon as the mass ended. He could certainly be dull at times, but even Sherlock wasn't unaware of Father's mood right now.

And then, quite suddenly, Father gave his younger son a gentle, almost affectionate pat on the head.

"You're a little bundle of nerves, Sherlock. Why don't you run along."

Sherlock looked up at him with round, hopeful eyes.

"May I, Papa?"

"Go right ahead."

With this affirmation, Sherlock _did_ bolt. Mycroft bit down on his lips to keep back a roar of laughter, for Papa was still quite serious.

"Now, Mycroft," he began. The mirth welled up in Mycroft's throat vanished. He envied his little brother, who had long since become a black speck disappearing into the distance. He wished _he_ was able to run far, far away right about now.

"Do you want to tell me why it is that you, the most tightfisted and lethargic young person I have ever known, are suddenly looking for extra work?"

Mycroft's heart sunk to the pit of his stomach. Of course he knew Father would smell something funny, but he'd had no time to plan for this eventuality. So, having been forced to rely upon improvisation, he turned to a tactic that was often his little brother's wont: answer a different question.

"Well... I can go there after school and finish my exercises after I get home. I don't get that much school work, really—"

"That's very good. _Why?_" Father interrupted impatiently. It was evident he'd grown tired of his son's dodging and indirect responses. Mycroft's breath halted, and his palms began to grow moist. He already knew how this discussion would end, but even now he considered giving a wise-crack response. He thought briefly back to that night at the dinner table just about two years ago, when he was twelve and Sherlock was but five. Accidentally, he'd let out a rather loud hiccup followed by a belch after swallowing a mouthful of painfully dry ham. Sherlock giggled, and Mycroft went right on eating as if nothing had happened. Father rolled his eyes and pointedly laid down his fork.

"Now Mycroft, I am sure I don't even _have_ to tell you what you should say."

Without missing a beat, Mycroft replied, "Sorry. Must have been the Holy Spirit moving within me."

Little Sherlock exploded into laughter, and Mycroft received a backhander the likes of which he'd never forget. It was one of the few times Father had ever struck him (although he probably would've dared to have been hit more if the blows weren't so painful!)

So should he give in to the inevitable now or go down fighting?

"Well... there's no reason why I can't help. I'm perfectly capable of—"

"Enough. No more games. Do you think I'm blind, boy? Of course I know you're just looking for money!" all-knowing Father stated firmly.

"Money?" shot the perspiring Mycroft impulsively. "I am, but not there! Unless Father Kilpatrick mentioned something about a weekly salary that I happened to miss, I don't see how I could possibly make a profit out of this!"

As soon as it came out of his mouth, Mycroft knew he'd said too much. _Oh, damn, damn, damn,_ he repeated frantically in his head. He chomped down on the inside of his cheeks, bracing himself for the sharp reprimand and blow.

The sharp reprimand and blow that failed to come after a good minute.

Slowly, Mycroft turned to glace at his father, who only gazed straight ahead, looking pensive and stern as ever but effectively calm.

"Beg pardon, sir," mumbled Mycroft.

"You're hardly over five years from twenty, Mycroft. Do you really need to wait for me to strike you for you to understand when you've done something wrong?"

"No, sir," answered the younger Holmes, staring at the dirt road.

"Good. I should like to think my boys are past the age when I need to beat them like dogs in order to correct them."

_I should like to think so, too, sir,_ thought Mycroft in full agreement. They could now see their small but well-kept house growing closer and closer as they continued down the lane, and Mycroft felt he had to speed things along a bit and come to the point now, else they might wind up discussing it in front of Sherlock.

"So, you do not wish for me to assist Mister Ferrin."

"Oh, I never did say that, son," replied Emery Holmes enigmatically and with an undertone of something akin to mischief in his voice.

"Then what am I to do?" asked Mycroft somewhat warily.

"You're going to do exactly what you told Father Kilpatrick you would do."

_Really? That's it?_

"Well...Of course I will, sir. I'm not sure that I understand your objection."

"And if I discover that you've accepted so much as a farthing from Mister Ferrin," Father went on, "rest assured I _will_ cane you for your troubles."

_What?_

"But...But you just said that—"

"I just said that you're too old for me to be punishing you all the time. Now _act_ like it. You know who takes on a charitable work with the intention of making profit? Scoundrels, thieves, and, unfortunately more often than not, extortionate politicians. However, I see no reason why a good, responsible young adult cannot sacrifice a small piece of his time to help a poor old man in need of a pair of extra hands...and perhaps even learn a thing or two about how to properly milk a cow in the process," finished the eldest Holmes on a playful note.

_What? WHAT?_

"Well...Of course, sir," murmured Mycroft, trying desperately to recover his wits. "Although what I stand to gain by acquiring that particular skill is a mystery to me," he added, a little bit disgusted at the thought of having use for it someday. Didn't his father know he planned on moving to the city the moment he was of age and become a professor of mathematics?

"It was my lot when I was a lad, son. And do you know what? Once I was old enough to start school, I could not study hard enough or too long to assure myself that I could rise above such work and spend my life on something worthwhile. But that's exactly what I did. While you, Mycroft, already seem to have this drive, I still think it would do you much good to see firsthand what you were so fortunate to have _not_ been born into."

"Indeed, sir," responded an only half-coherent Mycroft flatly.

_There is absolutely no way I can get out of this one._

His heart now flooded with dread and despair; disaster had struck.

* * *

A/N: I don't understand why this site no longer allows the use of a question mark and an exclamation point back-to-back. It might be horribly abusable (I'm pretty sure that's not a word) but I think it gives great expression if you use it right. Oh well. Mycroft's a selfish little thing, isn't he? Will he indeed find a way out of this one? Will it pay?


End file.
